


Barking At the Moon

by sellswordking



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellswordking/pseuds/sellswordking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dark, things change. The lieutenant goes into the woods and doesn't have to look to know his sergeant is following, always, faithfully behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barking At the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This was smut that I wrote long, long ago for my girlfriend because I somehow drew her name out of a Hanukkah exchange hat. It was hilarious to us at the time because we were constantly talking to and referencing one another in posts and somehow the mod had missed it and thus assigned me to her. We thought it was cute, anyway.

The lieutenant looked at you after dinner before he walked away. You know what it means, what he's _telling_ you to do, and just the thought makes your heart beat faster. It's hard just to wait a suitable amount of time even though you're pretty sure everyone knows what you two do. If you didn't keep up some sense of propriety, things would fall apart and even though this isn't a conventional operation, you're still a unit Goddammit and that counts for not getting killed in war.

So you wait ten minutes, and you get up and go into the surrounding woods. It's not the direction the lieutenant went in, but you know how to find him because you've been doing this for too long not to have some kind of routine down by now. You know you're not the only ones, because you've seen Wicki and Utivich mumbling to one another before disappearing for a half an hour, and Hirschberg only has to look at Kagan a certain way to make the man flush and excuse himself.

You're all men and men have _needs_ , and it ain't like you can find some broads smelling the way you do and speaking little to no French. But what you and the lieutenant have, that's not just stress. It's not just release. And yeah, okay, maybe you look up to him, maybe your heart beats just a little for him, but you're not in love or some flowery shit like that. You just _know_ , and he _knows_ , and the two of you make a hell of a team.

It doesn't take long to find him, lounging against a tree in that careless way he sometimes does even though you know he'd snap your neck if you snuck up on him. So you make a bit of noise and draw his attention before stepping out from the brush. His slow, dark smirk sends a fire straight to your groin and something in his eyes makes you wish you had your bat and a nazi to bash to pieces because he fucking sparks that in you. That deranged kind of thrill, the one that makes you _want him_ and want to impress him like a fucking dog preening for it's master.

He's holding your leash and even though you're the one pressing him against rough bark and shoving your tongue down his throat, you know who the puppeteer here is. He's got your strings twisted around his fingers as tight as your hair, but fuck if that matters because it's nothing to be ashamed of--being mastered by a man as great as Aldo Raine.

You tumble to the ground and take the lieutenant with you, mouthing at the burn on his neck. You tremble to think any mortal man even attempted to take the life of Aldo the Apache, they way the German army trembles at the mention of your nickname or the sound of a bat cracking against bone. There's no doubt in your mind this scar is what makes him so jackfuck insane, and what's getting you off is how it tastes under your mouth. Like a bit of that will wear off on you or you can suck it out of the mangled skin and be the man he is.

When the lieutenant pulls your hair and scratches the back of your neck you jerk and writhe against him. He growls at you, “Get on with it, son. We ain't got all fuckin' night for you to decide you're the kind who _makes love._ ” and _fuck_ it hits just the right note to make you rip down his pants and spread his legs open wide. Your fingers are slick with nothing but spit because it's all you've got out here and all he fucking needs when you shove them inside him, two at a time. It's the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen, and puts you in a kind of reverence to watch your commanding officer buck and tense while you twist your fingers and spread him open.

Unfortunately, the lieutenant is right and there isn't much time for you to enjoy the moment of dominance he allows, so you pull your fingers out and spit in your hand to try and slick yourself up enough that he won't tear open. His hand shoots out and he grabs you by the dick, stroking hard a few times. “Fuck me, Sergeant. That's an order.” You're thankful it's dark because that low growl makes heat crawl up your cheeks and gets you harder than any pretty girl back home ever did. Grabbing his wrists you slam them to the ground and position yourself agianst him before thrusting in sharply. He doesn't quite howl, but it's fucking close and you wonder if the others can hear him.

Keeping his wrists pinned, you show your superior how men fuck in Boston and fucking remind him why he keeps coming back to _you_ for this when you both damn well know the entire troupe is hard for him. He growls for more, harder, and every fucking time you comply. The lieutenant demands in his rough tone you show him what you're made of, and, gripping his wrists hard enough to bruise, you fuck him hard and deep enough that he'll be feeling it for days.

It's dangerous to be so loud but that's the edge you're both riding, and when he looks up and you and tells you to jerk him off, it's over for you. Your orgasm is so intense the world whites out for a few moments and everything just sounds like static. For a moment you're afraid you said something stupid but your lips feel numb like you're drunk or frozen and you know you couldn't get a fucking thing out even if you wanted to.

You wrap your hand around his cock and start jerking him off, knowing he's fucking close. His freed hand comes up and rakes through your hair, pulling a good few strands out when his body tenses and he comes with your rank on his lips because 'Sergeant' isn't as intimate as 'Donny'.

In the aftermath he smirks up at you and you know you've been used only to get him what he needed. There are a lot of reactions you know you should have to that. Licking his come from your fingers and thanking him, you know, shouldn't be one of them. But that's what you do, with more gratitude than you should feel.

War changes all men. And you're no exception.


End file.
